


Sentinels

by fiercynn



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural
Genre: Aliens, Crossover, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiercynn/pseuds/fiercynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not dead yet," Sam wanted to tell him, recalling late-night showings of Holy Grail in various rooms in his dorm, though he doubted Dean had ever seen it. He couldn't count the number of things he wanted to tell the demon who'd brought him back and taken Dean down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentinels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luthien13](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=luthien13).



> Originally posted [here](http://fiercynn.livejournal.com/16544.html).

The year started off like any other except that they no longer had a large, all-encompassing goal, but, instead, thousands of smaller goals that were identified ahead of time. The flood of demons that had been set loose were scattered all around the country, in various human guises, though with similar deeds in mind. Ellen and Bobby hunted with the boys for a while, but it was eventually decided that they needed another central hub to draw in hunters, and, callous as it sounded, they needed to find a new Ash. The other two went off to start planning and stayed in regular contact, as did Jo, who was now working on the West Coast.

The problem was, Dean's motivation to do the job kept increasing, but not in the way that it always had. He was much of an automaton about it, mechanical in his ways, since now the Demon was dead, their father was no longer in Hell, and Sam was alive. The way Sam saw it that meant that Dean should bring more emotions into it. But he didn't.

He was also more easily tired – the boys had been trained to keep such weaknesses out of the actual job, but in their spare time, Dean rested constantly. Sam took to driving most of the time but it rarely gave him any thrill when Dean was just passed out next to him.

"That's why they call it the passenger seat," Dean said dryly one time when he'd woken up and Sam had bitched him out about it. Not that he didn't want Dean to sleep; but he felt that with every part of their journey (literal, metaphorical, emotional – anyway you chose), Dean was trying to slip away (again, in whatever way) from him, pre-empting his doom to make it easier on both of them.

"You're not dead yet," Sam wanted to tell him, recalling late-night showings of Holy Grail in various rooms in his dorm, though he doubted Dean had ever seen it. He couldn't count the number of things he wanted to tell the demon who'd brought him back and taken Dean down.

One of the good parts of Dean's extended rests, however, were that they left Sam with spare time to research and look for ways out of Dean's deal. Normally Dean would have written it off as a waste of time when they could be working, but since he was never conscious anyway, no one was there to see Sam at it. Anyway, he didn't want to attempt the job on his own _quite_ yet, so he did need to fill up the time.

There were many different areas in which Sam could search for a loophole. First, there was the demon's end of the deal, whether she had properly fulfilled her part. Both fortunately and unfortunately, it seemed she had – Sam was alive and completely fit, albeit resurrected against his will. This was his next idea, that he should argue about being part of the deal although he was never sworn in, but all the answers there seemed to end up with him dead again and Dean back where he'd started. Then there was the quality of Dean's life, which was certainly down at the moment, but Sam guessed that the demon would say that a "good" year had never been specified, so was not required, and Dean was, of course, far too obtuse and self-sacrificing to have thought about that beforehand. Finally there was the demon herself, and Sam was still looking to see if there was any hope there, if she had any particular weaknesses.

But, that seemed to be all. For a while, at least. The months drifted on and it was more and more unbearable to see Dean wasting away towards damnation. Sam was undeniably desperate, and even his psychic abilities didn't help – they seemed to have turned off recently, not even giving them information about the demons they were hunting. Perhaps it was an effect of having died. Sam didn't care, unless they would have helped with their predicament. So after nights of hunting, all he did was research through dry mornings, his eyes blurring from staring at the screen and the frustration building up so much in every part of him that sometimes he had to go wank off in the bathroom just to clear his head. And Dean slept on.

It was almost accidental, how he came across the website. Well, not quite accidental. Sam's eye for patterns set him off. Usually he and Dean dealt with reports of people dying mysterious deaths in similar ways over many decades; this time, he happened to notice a certain man photographed over the years. A man who never aged. He was there at all kinds of events, even some important deaths, but Sam had been misjudged enough to give him the benefit of the doubt about his presences there. Still, Sam's curiosity was piqued. As he delved deeper and deeper, more men came up, with different faces but similar roles and patterns. Sometimes there were women, never by themselves but with one of the men who reappeared.

At first Sam thought it might be some kind of supernatural league, surviving through the ages and working in conjunction with each other though rarely in more than pairs. But one day as he surfed, with Dean nearly comatose on the motel room bed near him, he came across a name.

The Doctor.

From then on, the information was easy to find, a veritable flow of data. Sam couldn't quite believe it at first. This was the _Internet_; it could very easily be some elaborate Borgesian-style hoax. But – there were just enough random, unconnected consistencies and gleams of what Sam liked to think of as "human" truths to make him believe in it, if only a little. It was, after all, in his line of work to believe in the impossible fears of many. Maybe this wasn't too much of a stretch now, to believe in an impossible hope.

*

"Roswell, New Mexico," said Sam, slapping down a sheet of print-outs on Dean's knee.

Dean, blinking sleep out of his eyes, looked at it with more than a little skepticism. "Please don't tell me – "

"Nope, it's demons." Sam gave a tiny shrug, as if to say, what else are there these days?

"Just as well," said Dean, "I am so not in the mood to deal with a Trickster. Anyway, it's too far out of our range. We can get Jo to deal with it – we've got plenty of work right here."

At any other time, Sam might have appealed to Dean's sense of adventure, or at least, his quirky interest in oddities, but he knew that wouldn't work now. Still, he had expected this. He pointed to the papers. "Jo's up in Seattle, which makes it almost as far for her. Besides, you think our own variety of demon-activity is enough to be worth all this research?"

"Hey, for all I know, these could just be print-outs of your latest cyber-sex session," Dean grumbled, but it was close enough to an actual joke that Sam felt encouraged.

"They seem to be working together," Sam said as Dean finally looked through the sheets. "Probably a family of demons. The usual signs are – well, not _usual_, since there are ten times as many, which is high even for now. And it's more conclusive than anything we've had so far."

He knew that would appeal to Dean; with their lack of resources, it had been pretty hit-and-miss so far, which frustrated Dean to no end.

Sam also knew that Dean's current state of apathy would not only make him less likely to buy into the idea at first but, paradoxically, would also make him more gullible and willing to follow Sam's lead in the end. Some part of Sam wanted Dean to look closer, to investigate instead of blindly believing, even though this hoax was of Sam's creation.

Dean, of course, ended up giving a sigh and saying, "Let's go for it," in such a weary voice that Sam almost blushed with guilt. But he was a Winchester. Lying, for the good of many, was more than second-nature.

They set off. Sam didn't quite know what he was going to do once they got to New Mexico and it was clear that there was no great outbreak of demonic signs, so he made Dean drive as much as possible. Actually, he insulted and complained about the Impala enough that Dean forced him out of the driver's seat, and he spent most of the way there alternately glaring at Sam and murmuring soothing comments to his car. By they time they arrived there early the next morning, Dean was almost dangerously tired, and he didn't make any of his usual gruff apologies as he stumbled into his motel bed.

Sam had to ignore the usual twinges of worry, and the less usual twinge of guilt, and instead went out to the address of his contact in Roswell.

For once, Sam had no energy to lie. "I need to find the Doctor," he said over a cup of coffee in the house of Alberto Marquez. "I can't tell you why, but I do."

Alberto, a tall, thin man in his mid-sixties, barely looked surprised. "How important is it?"

"Life or death," said Sam with certainty even though the words made him cold.

"Not an end-of-the-world kind of thing, then?" Alberto said.

"Not really," Sam admitted. If anything, having Dean away might be even more hurtful to the cause – but he couldn't think about that right now.

"I'm afraid he doesn't really deal with that kind of thing."

"The favor I want to ask him isn't that big, really." Okay, so _that_ was a lie, but. Second-nature.

"That's not the problem. There's no real way to contact him or summon him, as it is. In fact, there are few people in our world and our _time _who have had the fortune to see him more than once."

"Besides his companions."

"Right, but who knows where he gets them. Anyway, as I was saying, the only hope you've got is if some alien-related disaster is likely to hit the Earth, and he pops up because of that. Which isn't much of a hope, if you ask me."

Sam felt crushed. To be honest with himself, he'd surmised most of this stuff before, but the verification of his fears made him only angrier. "Isn't there any other information you can give me? I mean, aren't you supposed to be some kind of expert on him?"

Despite Sam's harsh tone, Alberto looked at him with pity, saying, "I do know a lot about him, which is only by virtue of my living in this crazy town. And – no offense, but I can tell you must be desperate if you're depending this much on him. Are you sure he's what you need? Your last resort?"

"I don't know," said Sam, dizzyingly. "I can't think of anything else, if that's what you mean."

Alberto nodded once. "Well. I do have the contact for Torchwood, though it's not exactly an inside source, it's their PR department. Which for Torchwood _is _something of an inside source. They've worked with the Doctor enough that they know the most about him, and I think now they've even got some way of contacting him. But, they don't take any old shit, and they're definitely not going to do anything without a reason." He got up and went to rummage around in his desk, returning with a sheet of paper. It was a list of phone numbers, all with code names, and stamped at the top with an official but mysterious-looking seal. "You're going to want that one there. Don't forget about the time difference, they don't like being called at night. And," he paused slightly on the word, "good luck to you."

Sam did not quite mope, but his departure from Alberto's house was anything but cheerful. He hadn't dared to take the car especially after his antics of the morning, and instead went to wait at the bus-stop. Torchwood. If the organization was anything like he'd read, they were not only secretive and defensive, but at one point had been against the Doctor, which had surely skewed their sources of information. And no one who was actually connected to the Doctor would think Sam's plan was anything close to legitimate. It was a long shot even to Sam. It didn't seem fair, he thought, knowing that he was sulking but unable to stop, that they'd helped so many random people in their time but didn't have a "good reason" to expect help when they needed it. Wasn't that what heroes like the Doctor were supposed to be about? Working for the general benefit of everyone, of course, but also managing to save insignificant people on the way? Yes. In this case, or at least, with this hero, who also specialized in _particular_ problems, the Winchesters were possibly just a little too insignificant.

"Fucking demons," he allowed himself, and indulged his petulance further by kicking at a stone. It just. Wasn't. Fair.

That was when he heard the sound.

It was absurd, that was the only word for it, absurd and stupefyingly alien. The noise undulated through the air like a strange siren, and Sam almost giggled at the accuracy of that comparison when the blue Police Box materialized slowly on the sidewalk in front of him. An inter-galactic siren, maybe.

His thoughts were still running in a circular kind of disbelief and giddiness when the door opened and a man in a tweed jacket came out to survey his surroundings. "Ah!" he said, noticing Sam. "That's rather inconvenient, isn't it?" His accent was British. Sam couldn't think why. "Nobody's ever around to see when I land unless I want them to be. Though you must be the one I'm looking for, so I suppose it doesn't matter?"

"You're – you're the Doctor," said Sam, almost unsure even though all the evidence was in his favor.

"Oh, you beat me to it," he said. He didn't sound very surprised to be recognized, just a little put out. "And I suppose you're not going to ask me what kind of doctor? That's always my favorite part."

"Why are you looking for me?"

The Doctor looked sheepish, saying, "Well. I need to make sure you _are _the person I'm looking for, but I'm afraid I can't remember the name – thousands of humans stored up in here, you see. What's your name?"

"Sam Winchester."

"Winchester!" The Doctor pressed his lips together absurdly and furrowed his eyebrows. "That just might be it. Winchester. Winny Winny Win Winchester. Oh!" He looked jubilant, and turned to Sam. "Are you by any chance related to _John _Winchester?"

Did _everyone _know his dad? "Yeah, I'm his son. His younger son. But he died – was killed – almost a year ago."

It was astonishing how quickly the Doctor's expression could change from wildly gleeful to sober and thoughtful. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly, and Sam actually believed that he was, that the Doctor, with his human appearance but alien soul, actually had the capacity to feel genuinely sorry about every bad thing that happened in this world, or any world.

He made no other motion of sympathy or condolence, but Sam thought that had more to do with his nature and mannerisms rather than a lack of feel. After a moment, the Doctor said, "Do you, and again I'm relying on chance here, happen to be in the same line of work as your father? Hunting?"

"Yes, my brother Dean and I."

The Doctor looked even sadder for a moment, but it soon passed. "Then you should know you've got a problem. You've had some kind of outbreak of demons recently, haven't you?" Sam nodded. "Your 'demons' happen to emit various substances into the atmosphere, which permeate out even further, acting as a beacon for extraterrestrial life. It's as if the entire planet has lit up a message saying, 'Come and eat us, we are weak'."

"You mean there are aliens coming to attack us?"

"Maybe not yet, but there will be."

"And…are you going to fight them?"

"Well, yes, if it comes to that. But I find it's always a _bit _more effective to stop the problem at its source."

"We're doing all we can," said Sam, "and it's a slow job. Like I said, it's just me and my brother."

"Yes yes, I know," said the Doctor, a spark of impatience in his voice. "And I don't fancy myself a hunter. But I think, with a little bit of time, I could deduce a way to limit the signs that they're broadcasting. So…" he said encouragingly.

"Yes?" said Sam, already somewhat befuddled and turned around by the conversation.

"I need information about demons," said the Doctor, "maybe even exposure to one, and information on this outbreak. And I believe you can help me."

Sam thought for a moment. Unfortunately, helping the Doctor would involve Dean in the plan, though of course he wouldn't have to know the final outcome. He would still be suspicious though, which meant more lying.

The good part of this was that Sam had some leverage – and that, finally, settled it.

"Right, I'll help you under one condition," said Sam firmly.

"_Condition_?" asked the Doctor, and Sam deflated.

"Well, no. Look, I – I'm not a bastard, all right? I just need a favor."

"Which is…?"

Breathe, Sam, Breathe. "I've noticed you don't have anyone traveling with you at the moment. After we help you, I want you to take my brother Dean as your companion on your TARDIS."

The Doctor's eyebrows seemed almost on top of his head. "Really hate your brother, do you?"

"Not at all," said Sam quietly. "It may be the only way to save his life. Literally the only way."

"And you don't want to come yourself?"

"I've got this job to do here. Maybe – maybe someday, when the job's done…"

But Sam knew there would never be a someday, that he'd never truly know the peace of being done. He'd resigned himself to that a while ago, giving up all claims to another life longer ago than even Dean would have guessed. He just never thought he'd have to do it alone.

The Doctor's gaze was now inscrutable. After a moment, he said, "I'm sure in a profession like yours, you see the need to help me for just the sake of, oh, the safety of the world. And it's a bit much to be making conditions when I could very easily find another hunter, since, I know, you're not in that terrible position of being the only ones in the world to carry your burden, even if it may seem like it. But – you help me, and I'll consider it. I will be meeting your brother, I assume?"

"Yeah, I'll take you to the motel. I should warn you, he's not in the best shape at the moment, but he's still good on the job. And," Sam added, "he doesn't even know who you are, which we'll have to explain, but it would be better if you didn't mention the favor I just asked."

"Ah," said the Doctor, but just looked thoughtful, and he didn't say anything more.

*

Dean was no longer asleep when Sam returned with the Doctor, and looked more than a little pissed off about it. But Sam had known that in Dean's current state, even if he knew what kind of research and preparation needed to be done, he wouldn't start anything until Sam was there.

"Where were you?" said Dean, clearly trying to balance on the line between stern and merely petulant.

"While you were _sleeping_, I was trying to get some work done. And, well, it looks like there is no work to be done, actually."

"You're kidding," said Dean flatly. "So you dragged me – us – all the way out here for nothing? Shit, Sam."

"Dean, I'm sorry. I messed up, okay?" said Sam. Guilt made the apology sound, and feel, even more sincere. "And I wouldn't exactly say for nothing. I met this guy – "

"Hello," put in the Doctor amiably from his place at the doorway.

Dean looked at him as if he hadn't noticed before, or, more likely, hadn't cared. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"I don't know what my brother told you," said Dean defensively, "but I'm not sick. Anyway, _the _Doctor? Of what?"

"Not that kind of doctor, actually – "

But Sam interrupted him. "Dean, I know this is going to sound more than a little crazy, but you're going to have to trust me," he said. "The Doctor – he's an alien."

A pause. "Sam," said Dean, his eyes narrowed almost to slits.

"Dean, it's _true_. I saw his spaceship. It's this blue police box thing that looks like it's from the 1950s – and it defies the laws of physics, you wouldn't believe, not that you ever really learned the laws of physics, but it's bigger on the inside that than on the outside – come on, I couldn't make this shit up!" Dean was still looking at him like he was utterly insane or, worse, possessed, so he turned to the Doctor and pleaded, "Prove it."

The Doctor eyed Dean for a moment, and then he leaned forward. "I have two hearts," he said, taking one of Dean's hands and pressing it to his chest in a quick, gentle motion that made Sam's breath catch in his throat. Dean's eyes became wide and almost hunted, and he eventually pulled his hand away, rubbing the tips of his fingers together.

"An alien," he said.

"I can also kiss my elbows," said the Doctor helpfully. "And I can stand on my head. I could probably kiss my elbows while standing on my head, actually. Should give that a try sometime."

"A double-jointed alien," said Dean, almost calmly. "In motherfucking _Roswell_."

"Well, to be fair, I came here looking for _you_, so it's a bit of a coincidence that it's Roswell. Nice place, though."

"Why were you looking for us?"

The Doctor began to explain again, and Sam was suddenly relieved. He felt, with a strange, inbred certainty, that they'd broken through the main wall of Dean's skepticism. After that step, Dean would try to understand as much as he could about it; partly still to make sure, but mostly because Dean had always preferred _better safe than sorry to ignorance is bliss_. Now the issue was whether his brother would get along with the guy – he was quirky enough that Dean could either be incredibly amused by him or hate him, and with Dean's current range of moods, one of those options was more likely.

"Okay, okay, I get it," said Dean finally. "You want to tag along with us, huh? Well." He stood up. "I'm getting tired of this room, and I need a drink. Then we can talk specifics." Sam was still so comforted that he didn't argue with Dean, even though it was barely afternoon. As far as Sam was concerned, Dean could have whatever he wanted, if they could find an open bar.

"Not tea, by any chance? I suppose not, this is America."

"I meant to ask about that – why the British accent?" asked Sam before Dean could make a snide comment about _tea_.

"Oh, lots of planets have a – Britain," said the Doctor lamely. He frowned. "No, that's not right any more, is it? I've no answer for that, I'm afraid."

Dean went to grab his coat and Sam just rolled his eyes when he palmed a vial of holy water as well. Okay, so Dean's skepticism wasn't completely gone, and it was playing a part in his request for a drink. It was all part of that better safe than sorry thing anyway, and at least Dean's apathy had faded in the process.

*

After a beer and the confirmation that the Doctor was not possessed, Dean was ready to get down to business. "What exactly is it that you need to see? Just a demon, any kind? And can it be during an exorcism?"

"Why don't you first explain how this outbreak happened, and then describe the process you use to find and exorcise them," he replied.

They did. The Doctor listening, frowning and muttering under his breath at various points. "I think I may first have to actually see this place in Wyoming to find out if anything peculiar was released there."

Sam glanced at Dean. He would have given almost anything to never go back there, but –

"No," said Dean. "That's useless for us and takes us too far out of our way. You want to watch us do our job? Fine. But _we_ won't be getting anything done there."

"Don't you understand that this is all 'part of your job'?" the Doctor insisted. "You may have problems to deal with right now, but this is just an even bigger problem superimposed on all the others. And I can get us there very quickly."

Dean's expression showed that he'd relented, but he seemed unable to agree without some further argument. "Can my car fit in your spaceship?" he demanded.

The Doctor squinted. "Not…quite."

"Then we'll go, but we're driving."

"I can get you back here just as quickly," he assured.

"I thought you wanted the full experience, _Doctor_," said Dean, giving him a look.

"Besides, it's not like you don't have the time."

"Well, no. But I thought you might not," said the Doctor, his voice a little softer than usual.

Dean's expression changed; he looked grim, foreboding, but not unyielding. "Alright," he said, taking a swig of his beer, and then the look on his face became almost cheeky. "I'll admit I'm a bit curious about this ship of yours. You don't have a strobe light in there, do you?"

Sam hid a smile.

*

Sam had been for a brief ride in the TARDIS on the way back to the motel after meeting the Doctor, but he'd been too full of wary anticipation to get much out of it. Now he was not only fascinated, but he felt comfortingly amused by Dean's even more obvious interest in all that was different and shiny. Dork.

"And we're off!" said the Doctor dramatically, doing something to the panel in the middle of the TARDIS.

It made the same noise as it had when it arrived, and Dean looked startled. "That is _weird_," he said, sounding all too gleeful. "Speaking of which - what other weird shit have you seen? Do you know any androids?"

"Well, there are Cybermen. And these machine-like creatures in the Andromeda galaxy who subsist on battery-power, but were not created by any creature that I've ever heard of. Stranger yet, they're all unquestioningly atheist."

Dean regaled him with more (undeniably dorky) questions, but within a few minutes the noise came again and the Doctor stopped answering. "We're here!"

"Oh, good," said Dean, sounding more than a little disappointed. Sam felt heartened by his enthusiasm and curiosity, but as soon as the thought occurred to him, it twisted in his gut and left him feeling empty. This was what he wanted for Dean, wasn't it? He couldn't back out on it now, when it might actually become reality. Though that was probably what made him panic.

They tumbled out of the TARDIS and the scene in front of them was horribly familiar – the graveyard, the Devil's Gate, even the trees bending over them. The sunlight made everything seem ominously fake instead of more cheerful or safe. Sam closed his eyes momentarily but it didn't help; in his mind he could see Dean slammed against the headstone, more exhausted and hopeless than ever, with the Demon leaning over to whisper seductive lies in his ear. The memory should have been easier because that time and that struggle were now satisfyingly over – but they weren't, not with Dean still dying for a year and Sam still using all his energy to fight it. There was always something terrible left, even after the moment of solution, and this time it was that even before the moment Dean had already been seduced to Hell.

The Doctor scurried about for a bit. Dean wandered around aimlessly at first, sometimes fingering the top of a headstone, before joining Sam where he was standing by a tree.

After thoroughly examining the Devil's Gate, the Doctor returned to them as well. "I thought you said demons leave traces of sulfur?"

"We think it goes away when they no longer inhabit the area," said Sam.

"A temporary residue, then, that dissipates after lack of exposure. But their other effects certainly don't. And – there seems to be something different here. The effects I've recorded should have indicated more than ten times the number of demons you've estimated."

"We may be wrong about those," said Dean. "After all, we've heard reports of places where there are tons of demonic omens, with greater effects than seem likely. Like the ones that brought us to Roswell in the first place." Sam shifted uneasily.

Fortunately, the Doctor said, "Even so, I think it's more than it could possibly be for the effects on this place itself. From what I understand, that case would cause a build-up of sulfur." He scratched his nose, looking thoughtful. "Can I see the gun that opened the gate?"

"The Colt," said Dean, with satisfying smugness, "is in my _car_."

Sam cleared his throat and held up the gun that he'd tucked into his back pocket. "Sorry, Dean, I thought of that." Dean scowled but the Doctor looked grateful, and really, Sam was on his side in that argument, especially concerning time.

The Doctor examined it, going back to the Gate. Dean sighed and sat down on the grass, leaning against the tree, and after a moment Sam joined him. "Don't stick it in!" he called out as the Doctor put the gun startlingly near the door, and the Doctor waved back at him.

"So young, yet so paranoid," said Dean, shaking his head. Sam looked at him and gave a reluctant grin. He did look better already. Maybe all Dean had needed was a diversion – but, that wouldn't last forever, and currently, neither would Dean.

Shaking these thoughts away, he said mildly, "He is flinging around a gun," as if that was all that was important about the Colt.

"An _unloaded_ gun," Dean reminded him. "Admit it, you're just a tight-ass."

It was maybe even funnier considering Dean's initial mistrust of the Doctor. Sam didn't say that, however, just thwopped Dean on the head.

"Bitch," said Dean, muffled. But before Sam could respond, he added, "Some brother you are, making me drive all the way to Roswell for nothing."

Sam looked at him quickly. He was startled – he should have expected it, because Dean always had a knack for drawing him in with what he wanted to hear before eviscerating him. "I told you, I'm sorry about that," he said carefully. "It wasn't really my fault."

"Oh yeah, I know," said Dean, his voice just as casual. "And it wasn't really for nothing, anyway. At least we met the Doctor and found someone we could help. That was lucky." He stretched his legs out and leaned back even more, looking thoughtful. "We are just so _lucky_ sometimes." Sam heard the faint sarcasm, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

The afternoon wore on into early evening, the light that filtered through the leaves dimming around them. The Doctor was still peering around at the Gate from every possible angle, it seemed. Even Sam was tired, and he had a headache from Dean's rendition of "Two Minutes to Midnight" – it was bad enough the first time, when it was clear that Dean's voice was much more suited to crooning '80s pop than to Iron Maiden, but it was especially grating when repeated four times in the past half-hour.

The Doctor strode over to them eventually. "I'm starving," said Dean, as soon as he was near. "You've got to be done. Do you have anything to eat in this thing, or can we go out somewhere? Since we've saved so much _time_?"

"Let's go somewhere," said the Doctor. He was still frowning so much that his eyebrows seemed about to wriggle off his forehead, and didn't notice Dean's irritation. "I need to clear my head. Where should we go?"

"Anywhere I can get a gigantic pile of greasy, salty fries," said Dean immediately.

The Doctor smiled, looking surprised. "Some things are the same everywhere, aren't they?"

Sam had trouble thinking of French fries as the universal constant, but the Doctor probably knew more than he did about it.

They went to a diner. Dean didn't flirt with any of the pretty waitresses but he did stuff himself, so Sam was again reassured. He hadn't been flirting with waitresses for quite a while, actually, so maybe that wasn't even a sign Sam should watch out for.

"How is it going?" Sam asked the Doctor after he'd supplied himself with a burger.

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted, scratching his chin. "I'm still not sure if the effects are coming from individual demons, or from the way they escaped. Tell me more about this Yellow-Eyed Demon. How did you know about him and how he got in?"

Sam glanced at Dean involuntarily. They hadn't quite mentioned their – well, Sam's – part in the whole affair, mostly because the Doctor's questions had been specifically about demons. But there was no use in hiding it; besides, the Doctor of all people had no reason to be judgmental about it. Before Dean could say anything, Sam explained everything, including his strange origins, the "army" that the Demon had brought together, all the way right up to his death. Dean did look startled at that, and fidgeted his way through the brief explanation of the deal he'd made, but Sam knew it would have to come out eventually. Through it all, the Doctor sat, his face mostly blank but showing faint interest.

When he was finished, the Doctor merely said, "So you this Yellow-Eyed Demon did something to you when you were a baby? That should mean you have some special mark on you or, well, in you, affected by him. Could I take a sample of your blood?"

"Sure, but I've had blood tests before, even since I – died. Nothing strange showed up."

"They didn't know what they were looking for. Besides, do you think I'm a brilliant nine-hundred year old alien for nothing? Plus," he added, "_I've _got special gadgets."

*

The blood tests that the Doctor conducted in the TARDIS revealed traces of something that Sam couldn't pronounce in his blood. ("Tharacyxlovanapowalbirium," the Doctor said insistently. "One of the elements that hasn't yet been discovered in your time. The scientist who tested it in 2498 wasn't named Tharacyxlovanapowalbir, he'd just hated his school chemistry teacher and wanted to make him suffer by giving him a difficult term to teach." Dean seemed to sympathize.) It was, apparently, the same substance that had been irradiating out and causing all this havoc.

"And the reason it came out at all has little to do with the release of the demons," the Doctor told them. "Or, at least, the demons have only a normal amount of it, which is fairly insignificant. But because Yellow-Eyes _died _in Wyoming instead of being sent back into Hell, it remained in earthly domains and drifted up."

Yet another bad effect of something that at the time had seemed like benediction. They could never win, could they?

But the Doctor continued, "It should be easy enough to eradicate, now that I know what and where it is. Even the Colt helps. I just have to induce a chemical reaction in the graveyard to break it down into sulfur, obviously, and voldemortium."

"The other undiscovered element?" said Sam disbelievingly.

"Yes, this time a scholar of ancient literature in 3760 who specialized in Harry Potter. Another thing that never changes." The Doctor sighed fondly. "Shall we head on back to the graveyard?"

"Yeah," said Sam, encouraged despite himself, and despite the fact that this was only one problem solved.

They got up but as they did, Dean staggered and gripped the top of the booth. "Dean?"

"I'm just a bit tired," Dean let out, straightening. "And don't give me that look, Sam, I've been through two todays already. That's the only reason." Sam didn't agree, but Dean did have a point.

"Should we take you back to – "

"Don't bother. It's not like I haven't slept in a car before. Your car's just a little different."

Dean conked out in a spare room that Sam hadn't known the TARDIS had as they went back to the graveyard. Once there, he and the Doctor went out with all of the Doctor's supplies, Sam leading the Doctor to the spot where the Demon had been killed. No grass grew there, and the moonlight glinted coldly off a small metallic object – the bullet from the Colt. Sam reached for it but the Doctor stopped him, and he started sprinkling chemicals on that section of the dirt.

Sam stood by, awkward, as the Doctor worked. He was interested though, especially in how similar it was to drawing runes, although far more scientific. But after a moment, the Doctor remarked, "This deal that Dean made, that he'd be damned to Hell for an eternity after a year – that's why he's tired all the time?

"Yes," said Sam, wary.

"And it's why you think I'm the only one that can save him."

"Yeah. I don't know if the power that demons hold can stretch any further than Earth, but I thought you had the perfect advantage – control over time _and_ location, so even the 'year' that Dean has would have no meaning if he were traveling with you." Sam smiled crookedly. "Like I said, it was the best thing I could think of. Craziest too, maybe, but best."

"But you haven't run this idea past him."

Sam looked out at the treetops nearby, his mouth tight. "You think he asked me when he made his deal? Don't get me wrong, I like being alive – but if there was any way I'd had an opinion about his deal, I would never have agreed. And neither would he about this. But he has no excuse – he has this year, but he hasn't even tried to do anything for himself. I was, at least, dead." Words Sam never thought would come out of his mouth, but they were certainly true.

The Doctor glanced up at him. "You can't force him into it."

"If you can't beat 'em, trick 'em," said Sam with finality. "He'll understand someday."

"No, he won't," said the Doctor. "And this is in no way a permanent solution. Do you think I'm going to force someone to stay with me? That's no good for me either. And I won't abandon him on some planet just to save his life if he wants to come home."

"_Please_," said Sam, knowing that it was wrong, but still needing it more than he wanted it.

"Believe me," said the Doctor, "it's bad enough when both people give up on something. But it's worse when only one does." There was a strange look in his eyes, regretful and sparkling with anger. Sam wondered who in the Doctor's life had given up.

Still, though he knew his own anger was misdirected, he said, "Dean is the one who's given up."

"You've both given up in different ways. In your case, you're willing to sacrifice what he isn't."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Exactly what you've got," said the Doctor simply. "A third-party to sort out things for you, and sort it out here, not in some other galaxy. Well then, that's done." He stood up. Before Sam could say anything, the patch of dirt that he'd been working on glowed with a bright purple, sizzling flame. The Doctor pulled a small object out of his pocket – which had to be his sonic screwdriver, Sam thought almost eagerly – and the top of it glowed. The Doctor touched the tip of the flame with the screwdriver and the flames died down, leaving the unmistakable smell of sulfur along with another unpleasant odor.

"Voldemortium kind of makes sense," Sam admitted. Then he stared at the spot. "Is that really all?"

"Oh, don't look so disappointed," said the Doctor, stretching. "I've still got more work to do, haven't I? _That_ will be quite a performance." He strode off towards the TARDIS. Sam stood still for a moment, puzzled, before following him.

Inside, the Doctor had shaken Dean awake. "You need to tell me where you made this deal."

"Why?" said Dean when he'd stopped mumbling to himself incoherently.

"So I can get you out of it."

That got Dean awake. "Why would you do that?"

"I'd say it's because you helped me and I want to repay you," said the Doctor thoughtfully, "but really, it's out of the goodness of my own heart. Well, hearts. And if I've got this right – and I'm pretty sure I do – it won't make me give up anything I don't want to give up. So. Where to?"

*

They went back to the crossroads. Dean worked slowly to set up the box and bury it; Sam, tense with anxiety, wanted to snap at him to hurry up until he noticed that Dean's hands were shaking. Somehow this felt almost too much like confronting doom, bringing a new and reckless hope into the equation. The Doctor just stood and watched, no clear emotion on his face but an air of resolute confidence in his stance and the lines of his body.

Dean brushed more dirt over the box and straightened, dusting his hands off. "Well," he said. His voice was hoarse.

"You can say that again," said a voice behind them, sultry and amused. Sam whipped around. He'd never seen a crossroads demon before and was morbidly fascinated by her chosen human form. She was certainly beautiful, in the kind of way that made his eyes hurt if he looked at her for too long, and there was no subtlety to her slyness; she moved like he'd imagine a snake would if it had long, graceful legs.

"Aren't you a little early, Dean?" she said. "Not that I'm complaining, of course. And you even brought your little brother to watch. How sweet. A bit disturbing, perhaps, but whatever gets you off, Sammy dear."

Sam _felt_ himself flush, but whether it was more from rage or embarrassment, he wasn't sure. Both, probably. Before he could say anything, the Doctor, stepping out of the shadows, cleared his throat and said, "Actually, we're here for something a bit different."

"_Oh_," she said knowingly. She looked, if possible, even more amused. "Oh, Dean, honey. I have to admit I'm disappointed. Our negotiations are long over."

"Can I ask what exactly you get out of this deal you've made?" said the Doctor.

"Come to convince me to turn from my dark, wicked ways? I don't know what these lovely boys have told you, but it won't work. I'm what you might call a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. _Really _wrong side." She was enjoying this, Sam realized. He couldn't imagine what the conversation must have been like when Dean had made the deal in the first place, when Dean was desperate and alone and didn't really know what he was doing, and only the thought that he himself had been dead at the time seemed any worse. The demon looked at the Doctor appraisingly. She said, "Who are you, anyway?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise," said the Doctor, his tone just as casual. "But let's get back to the question, shall we? What do you get out of this?"

"It's not 'what I get'," she said finally. "It's more what they have to give and how much it matters to them. And, of course, I get to sign one more name onto the roster of Hell."

"No, it's more than that," said the Doctor. His voice had changed, becoming lower and more _intent_, and even the demon seemed taken aback by his unearthly focus. "It's pain, pain and suffering, and above all, loneliness. You don't just want to create it, or create situations that increase it – you want to feel it, _enjoy_ it, get high off it. It's an addiction and you feel like you _can't survive without it_."

The demon had stood perfectly still throughout the little speech, not a muscle of her acquired body moving, but her eyes had slowly glazed over into a dense, opaque shade of red. She didn't say anything, but Sam knew with a jolt that the Doctor was right, and that the idea of what he said was, for that moment, holding her in its thrall.

"Now," said the Doctor softly, "I can see why you think Dean – though really I should include Sam, because you've made him very much part of the arrangement – I can see why you think these two might give you a fix. They've got pain and suffering, and despite having each other they're still lonely. Plus, they're so willing to sacrifice for each other that they refuse to talk about it or consult each other – " and Dean shot Sam a startled look, half-accusatory and half-guilty himself, " – and you get this lovely two-for-one deal, which is rather remarkable. But. It's still just a fix."

"You think you can make me a better offer?" said the demon, but much of her former bravado seemed replaced by slick desperation and want.

The Doctor gave a slow grin, looking, for a moment, as dangerous as the demon. "Oh, can't I just."

He took the demon's hands and carefully placed them on either side of his head, making her grasp him at the temples, and closed his eyes. The demon shut hers as well, and after a moment her hands began to glow faintly.

She gave a sudden gasp and began to tremble, and the Doctor gasped along with his, his shudders on the same terrible wavelength as hers; and Sam felt for a moment how much it would be to relive ten lives of impossible length in millions of impossible times and places, how horrible and wonderful to remember the millions of people met and lost, and knew that even if he could imagine it, Sam could never know the feeling of it dissolving into an undying sense of loneliness that was barely sustained by two beating hearts.

The demon gave a shriek and stumbled back, her eyes flying open to show pupils now bright and fiery. She turned to Dean. Her tongue darted out to lick at her lips. For a moment she just stared with her burning eyes, but then she said breathily, "Fine," recalling something in Dean's mind that he couldn't quite remember of glaring yellow eyes, and she vanished.

The Doctor opened his eyes as well but stood still and breathed deeply. He looked calm but haggard, showing some of his true weariness.

"She," said Dean abruptly, and stopped.

"Like I said," the Doctor murmured, "not anything I really minded giving up."

"You mean – you mean she took all those feelings away?" Sam asked.

"Oh no. Not that meaning of giving up, no, it's all still in here. But I think she should be…satisfied." He grinned again, cheekily this time. "Shall we? There's a car in New Mexico that must be missing you by now."

Sam tried not to roll his eyes. He suspected that the Doctor was just as bad about the TARDIS as Dean was about the Impala, and considering the TARDIS really was alive, he didn't want to think about what that meant.

The ride back seemed longer, stretched by the silence and the whirlwind of confused thoughts and emotions inside Sam. But eventually they arrived back in the parking lot of the motel. They got out and stood around; Sam glanced up at the stars and wondered where the Doctor would be off to next.

"Thank you," said Sam after a moment, not only because he meant it utterly, but he knew that Dean could never thank him for his own life.

But to his surprise, Dean said, "Yeah. Yeah, thanks," almost as fervently.

"Oh, it was nothing, really," said the Doctor, in the kind of way where nothing meant everything. "Thank you for your help. Although, you," he turned to Sam, "should probably come clean about your nefarious plan, shouldn't you?"

"What?" said Dean.

"Shoddy plan, really, especially the self-imposed solitude – after all, the point of having a spaceship that can travel in space _and _time is that you never lose time, so I could have taken both of you out for ages and come back at the exact moment you left to continue your 'job' – but I suppose that doesn't matter any more," he mused. "Anyway, I should be off. After all, there are other people around who actually want to see the universe, not just save their brothers from death in the most martyr-like way possible."

He opened the door to the TARDIS, stopping for a second to wave back cheerfully. "Bye! Lovely to have worked with you!"

Then, he was in, and the TARDIS made its way into nothing.

"I still think that's the weirdest noise ever," Dean remarked. But when Sam turned to look at him, his face was grave. "You want to explain that whole last part he was talking about, Sam?"

"No," said Sam frankly. Dean gave him a look. "Alright, alright, Dean, I know what you meant."

He explained: the research, the Roswell case hoax, finding the Doctor, his plan for Dean, the way the Doctor had argued and changed it. When he finished, Dean had the oddest expression on his face. He said, "Yeah, he was definitely right about how stupid it was. What the hell, Sam? And going behind my back?"

"Oh, like you can talk," said Sam, beginning to feel his anger prickling at him. The Doctor had done all that he'd promised – more – but Sam still felt raw. It was that time again, after the moment of where all was solved, that time when all his useless and even more impossible wishes crowded themselves into his mind to try to get free, and the misapplied hope made him rash and even angrier.

"You weren't exactly around at the time I made the deal, so clearly I couldn't ask your permission." Dean was pacing around, only a few steps back and forth, and so erratically that Sam didn't think he knew he was doing it.

"Yeah, but you did your goddamn best to hide it afterwards. And I wasn't sacrificing my fucking _life _for you, was I?"

"You might as well have been sacrificing mine, just in a different way," Dean spat. "You were trying to sentence me to a life without – to a life on a _spaceship_? With _him_? What made you think I'd want that? Did you want that?"

"It was better," said Sam fiercely, "knowing that you would be alive, somewhere, than damned to Hell."

"No, it would be worse to have to live without you!"

There was a silence between them, sharp and brittle. "Why the hell are we fighting?" Sam demanded finally, shaking with rage and nervousness.

"I have _no fucking idea_," Dean said just as violently, and he strode three steps towards Sam to kiss him, hard.

Sam stumbled back from the force of it and grabbed at Dean's shirt to keep steady, Dean's mouth relentless and hot on his own. This…well. Sam had thought about it – wondered for practically forever, hoped for slightly less than that, and yearned during these past few months when he'd missed Dean almost as much as if he had already left. He had just never thought that Dean would be willing to give that much up for this. But clearly he was wrong because now Dean was _kissing _him, one hand grasping the back of Sam's neck and the other hooked through a belt strap of his jeans, fingering around his hipbone. Thoughts of _impossible _and _wrong _that had always plagued him now swirled around in Sam's mind for an instant before flying out, because the reality of Dean's body, pressed against him like this, was too familiar and too perfect to be denied.

"Inside," breathed Dean when the need for oxygen became a more inconvenient reality.

Sam had dizzied thoughts about the irony of escaping to a motel room as Dean searched for the key in his pockets and swore at himself. Finally, he opened the door and turned to yank Sam forcibly inside. Sam was more than ready; he walked Dean backwards towards the nearest bed as Dean bit kisses onto his neck, their legs tangling together in the fall onto the mattress.

Sam had never, _ever _been this hard. He gasped as Dean's hands scrabbled at the button of his jeans, and then Dean's fingers slipped inside, fingers grasping his cock and moving in quick, amazing strokes, and Sam grabbed for any part of Dean just to hang on and hold, _forever_, to never let Dean go again, as sparks fizzed behind his eyes and he found Dean's mouth on his own once more.

*

Afterwards, as they lay stretched out on the bed together, Sam said quietly, "Why didn't you ever do this before?"

Dean turned on his side to look at him. "Before what?"

"Before you didn't know you were going to live. When you had just a year left and nothing to lose. I thought that meant you just…didn't want to."

"Do we have to have this conversation?" Dean groaned, but he didn't actually sound annoyed. Just – hesitant, maybe even confused. "Sam. I didn't want to think about how I'd be missing this. It's easier to miss something you've never had."

"I'd be the one missing it, jerk," Sam pointed out, resisting the urge to swat him.

"Yeah, that too," said Dean seriously.

"So what do we do now?"

Dean lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and sighed heavily. "The same thing we do every night, Pinky."

"Dean, you do _not _get to be the Brain."

"Says the guy who tried to get me abducted by aliens to save my life."

"Only the one."

"We don't do the same thing we do every night," said Dean, his voice changing into something lower and softer. "Not anymore. The day, yeah, we keep hunting. It's our duty, especially since these demons aren't gone, and –"

"I know, Dean," said Sam gently.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Yeah. But. As far as night goes? I'm so not done with you."

Which in Dean-speak meant something so much more – that he would never be done with Sam, not in any way. And there would be problems: they could still die at any moment in the life that they led, balancing on the edge of a knife; but for the moment, they, like the alien that traversed space and time above, before, and after them, seemed so much larger than life that they gleamed together and everything else was shadowed out. It would be hard. They would be fine.


End file.
